


Alexander and Salvatore

by alynwa



Series: A Dinner and a Story [2]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya wants to know more about how Sal Del Floria and Alexander Waverly met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alexander and Salvatore

One Thursday night, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo worked until almost 9PM before deciding to call it a night and heading out for a late dinner.  As it was the cleaners’ late night, they handed their badges in at the Reception Desk and passed through the thick door into Del Floria’s.  They waited until they heard his last customer leave before exiting the changing booth.  The older man was just hanging his “Closed” sign on the door.

“Gentlemen, good evening!  I thought you had already left for home,” he said in greeting to the CEA and his partner.

“Agent Del Floria, hello.  Napoleon and I had reports to finish and did not wish to put them off until the morning.”

Napoleon smiled broadly and remarked, “We are on our way to dinner.  Is Carmella holding dinner for you?  Because you are certainly welcome to join us if you’d like.”

As Agent Del Floria put on his coat and hat, he replied, “I would like that very much, but only on one condition: You both must address me as Sal.  I insist.”

That drew a grin from the Russian and a laugh from Napoleon.  “It’s a deal,” he said, “Sal it is.”

“Excellent, I just need to call the wife and tell her not to wait up.”

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

An hour later found the three men seated at a booth in the back of a small dining room on Baxter Street.  There was no sign on the door or anything on the exterior of the building that would indicate there was a restaurant on the premises.  It was dark, quiet and the food, served family style, was extraordinarily good and plentiful.  The Russian helped himself to more ravioli and remarked, “This place is wonderful, Sal!  How did you ever find out about it?”

Sal sipped his Chianti and smiled.  “That is a secret.  Suffice it to say that I knew a guy who knew a guy.  This place stays in business because it is very discreet and serves excellent meals.”

Napoleon nodded as he looked around the room.  “ _Very_ discreet, indeed.  I know you don’t watch a lot of television, Illya, but we walked past Tony Bennett and his friends to be seated and I swear that is Dean Martin I see eating in the kitchen.”

Sal shrugged, “It could be him.  Sometimes Dean, Frank, Joey and Sammy are here at the same time.  Celebrities like this place because no one bothers them and they can relax and be themselves.”

The agents turned their attention back to the food on their table.  It practically groaned under the weight of the platters of antipasti, pasta, broccoli rabe, salmon and mushrooms and salad.  There was no menu, per se, to choose from; the waiter simply brought out food from the kitchen.  Sal has assured his companions that this was the way it was done and that whatever came to their table would not disappoint and, true to his word, the food did not.

When even Illya could not eat another bite, their waiter swooped in with takeout containers and swiftly emptied the remaining food into them.  He cleared the dishes away and returned with three cups of espresso.

Napoleon sighed with contentment.  He looked at Sal and asked, “Have you ever brought Mr. Waverly here?  He might enjoy this, too.”

The older man chuckled, “Alexander is too fond of that horrible English, for lack of a better term, ‘cuisine’ to ever come here.  He has resisted, telling me that he will come if I tell him Guido has learned to cook a proper Bubble and Squeak.”

A wicked little grin lit up the blond’s face momentarily.  Napoleon saw it and thought, _What are you thinking, you sneaky little Russian!_ just as Illya said, “Sal, do you mind if I ask you something?”

When Sal made a gesture that signaled “go ahead,” Illya said, “When we were having drinks in Mr. Waverly’s office about six months ago, you told Napoleon and me that you met him while you were a detective in Bari.  I have been curious about that ever since.  Would you tell us the story, please?”*

Sal looked at his watch and then at the two eager faces before him.  “I will tell you on three conditions:  Buy another bottle of wine, I must leave you by 11:30 and you must never tell Alexander I told you.  Deal?”

As Napoleon ordered the wine, Illya shook Sal’s hand.  “Deal.”

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

_Bari, Sicily 1950_

Chief Detective Del Floria pulled his unmarked car into a space approximately a block away from the local brothel.  He looked around to make sure he was not being watched or followed.  If he were to be noticed, he hoped it would be by a man he knew.  That way, he could wink and make some comment about variety being the spice of life and know that the male code of silence would keep his secret.  If a woman he knew saw him heading into the brothel, the news would spread like wildfire that he is obviously cheating on Carmella and his life would become a living hell.

The reality, of course, is that he would never, ever cheat on his beloved Carmella and she knew it; he felt lucky to have found and married her.  Even after they discovered that she was barren, he refused to divorce her or have the marriage annulled even though he would have been well within his rights to do so.  Her friends and relatives, however, wouldn’t believe he was faithful and that is where the “living hell” part would enter into it because he wouldn’t be able to explain that he was entering a brothel to meet with one of his informants.

Donatella, the brothel’s owner, was a madam who was well known for her ability to keep secrets which is why many of the town’s politicos and Mafiosi considered her business to be neutral territory that everyone could visit without fear.  Unbeknownst to most, she was also a distant cousin of Sal’s who would, for a small fee of course, give him juicy tidbits of information he could use to make his cases, many of which were against lower level thugs, stick in court.  If giving her cousin information also resolved a problem either she or one of her girls was having with a customer, so much the better.  It was a mutually beneficial relationship.  Literally and figuratively, she knew where a lot of bodies were buried.

Fortunately, he was able to go through the brothel doors unseen.  Dona, as he called her, met him and brought him back to her office cum bedroom where they could have privacy.  “Cousin,” she said without preamble, “there is a suspicious man upstairs in Teresa’s room.”

“Oh?  And what makes him suspicious?”

“For one thing, all he wants Teresa to do for him is stay in the room and make him tea to drink.”

Sal laughed, “That has to be the easiest money she’s made in awhile!”

Waving her hand impatiently, she continued, “He is British, but his Italian was passable enough that we know what he wanted.  When Teresa came downstairs to get more tea, she told me that he had a pair of binoculars that he was using to spy on some people a few buildings away.”

Sal’s interest was piqued now.  “Could she tell who he was watching?”

“No, but that’s not all.  She said he has some kind of two – way radio he was speaking into, but it was English so she couldn’t understand any of it.”

Sal had heard enough.  If there were some legitimate reason for an Englishman to be spying on someone in Bari, the police department surely would have been made aware.  He had heard of some of the English crime syndicates like the Johnson and Quality Street gangs and wondered if this mysterious man was a member trying to get some kind of foothold in town.  Or, worse yet, a hit man come to fulfill a contract killing.

“Stay here, Dona,” he ordered as he affixed his badge to his jacket and flipped off his weapon’s safety.  Moving swiftly and quietly, he went up the stairs and stood outside Teresa’s door.  He could hear a man’s voice speaking softly and the rattle of a cup hitting a saucer.    Peeking through the key hole, he could see the man’s back was to the door; his right arm was bent as if holding binoculars to his face while his left hand held a World War II style walkie – talkie.  Quietly, he pushed the door opened and motioned for Teresa to remain silent.

“Put your hands in the air, stand up and turn around slowly!” he yelled as he pointed his gun at the Englishman’s head.  “Now!  You are under arrest!”

The man immediately straightened in his chair, raised both hands and slowly turned to face him.  Though he did not appear to be afraid, he visibly relaxed when he saw the police badge.  “Sir, there is no reason for that,” he said in badly accented, but understandable Italian, “I assure you I mean neither you nor this young lady any harm.”

“Teresa, step behind him and take those things from his hands and then go downstairs and wait with Donatella,” Sal said.  As she followed his instructions, Sal sized up his prize.  The most noticeable thing about him were his large, bushy eyebrows that topped intelligent looking eyes that seemed to miss nothing.  Deciding to err on the side of caution, he pulled his handcuffs from his pocket and instructed Teresa to place them on the man before she left.

“Really, Officer, these are hardly necessary!  What am I being arrested for, may I ask?”

“Prostitution, for now.  Once we get to headquarters, we’ll determine if other charges are applicable.”

At the word “prostitution,” the Englishman straightened his back and harrumphed indignantly, “I did not have sex with that woman!  This was all quite chaste!”

As Sal grabbed the man’s arm to lead him down the stairs he remarked, “I do not know how things are in England, but here, if you pay for the company of a woman, it is prostitution.  What is your name?”

“Alexander Waverly.”

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Napoleon and Illya both smiled at the idea of their boss being led out of a brothel in handcuffs and hauled down to a police station.  Napoleon grabbed the check and refused Sal’s offer to pay for his own meal.

“Absolutely not,” Napoleon said as he pulled bills from his wallet, “finding out about this place is worth the price of dinner alone, but hearing about The Old Man’s younger days is priceless.  What happened next?”

Sal finished his glass of wine and prepared to leave.  “The rest of the story you already know.  MI6 verified who he was and he was released.  We had dinner, he offered me a position in the UNCLE and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Over no one’s objections, Illya laid claim to the leftovers.  “Sal, this is one of the best meals I have had in a long time.  The food was wonderful and your storytelling was vastly entertaining.  Do you have any other stories that involve Mr. Waverly?”  When Sal didn’t answer, he let the question drop.

They had stepped back onto the sidewalk.  Sal had declined Napoleon’s offer to drive him home, opting instead to take the subway.  He did accept a ride that far and when he exited the car, he leaned into the front window and asked, “Do you two know how Lisa Rogers came to be Alex’s secretary?”

When they both shook their heads, Sal laughed and poked the Russian in the arm.  “I think I just guaranteed myself another dinner with you two.  Get home safe, boys.  Good night.”

“Good night,” they said in unison.

Sal walked to the subway entrance and descended the stairs as the two agents watched.  Napoleon pulled away from the curb when he was out of sight.  “ _Tovarisch,_ there is much we can learn from that man.  I think a monthly dinner with Agent Salvatore Del Floria is something worth pursuing.”

Illya pulled a piece of bread from his doggie bag and popped it into his mouth.  “I think you are onto something.”

 

*ref. “A Drink and a Tale”

   

 

 


End file.
